


You Move Like a Dream I Had

by Serenitala



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Clint is good at woodwork, Clint isn't as surprised as he should be, Dreams, Feels, M/M, Post-Movie(s), so there will be spoilers, there is also HYDRA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:19:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenitala/pseuds/Serenitala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Walking away from SHIELD is harder than Clint expects but easier than it would have been before."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first real fic in this fandom so please let me know if I have tagged wrongly or any warnings need adding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to theteapartyvip who acted as my beta and kindly pointed out that lists of synonyms have no place in fic.

Walking away from SHIELD is harder than Clint expects but easier than it would have been before.

He plays the mercenary for a while, shifting back into his previous life and allowing himself to be seen a little by anyone who might be in the market for a sniper, for a SHIELD traitor. Before long, he starts getting offers. When HYDRA comes calling he doesn't hesitate, trading information for the protection he'll need when his former employers come after him.

He finds it funny how soon they start to trust him, something to thank Loki for, no doubt. Being seen working against SHIELD is a bonus in this situation. Not quite 'my enemy's enemy' territory, but close.

* * *

Max has a mess of black hair and a body that belies the amount of lab time he puts in. He's dedicated to HYDRA and Clint doesn't much like him but is drawn to him all the same. Max always smokes after they fuck, one arm under his head as smoke curls above them.

“You're not a true believer.” He says one night, staring at the ceiling.

“Nah, I go where the deal is the best,” Clint replies, standing, and pulling on his underwear. “You still allowed to play with me?”

“My boss is practically insistent on it,” his tone is almost bored, but he sits up, his eyes meeting Clint's and they are clear and full, “apparently I give you an extra tie to our cause.”

Clint almost smiles, but he doesn't, just looks at Max and shrugs before slipping out of the room. They're both playing a dangerous game, with each other and with their employer but the danger sparks electricity in his skin and for the first time in a long while Clint feels something.

* * *

It's three months before Natasha finds him. He can feel her eyes as he buys his coffee, as he walks through crowds. He leads the way to one of his safe-houses, unknown about by both his old employers and his new, or at least he hopes so. He enters and stands with his back against the wall, watching the door.

“Did Fury send you?” He asks when she enters.

“No, I came alone.”

Clint doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed that it's not over.

“I would have come with you, you know that,” she says, her eyes wide and concerned. “You can still come back, we can clear all this up.” She steps towards him slowly and unblinking but Clint knows her too well, knows all her tricks and shakes his head.

“I wish you could understand,” and he really does, he wishes things could be like they were before; him and Nat and Phil god damned Coulson against the world.

“I can. Just talk to me. This isn't you. These  _people_...” she spits “they are not who you should be with.”

“Right now, neither are you,” he replies, as calmly as he can. Even now, Natasha still trusts him, that's why he's able to get a drop on her, why he's able to pull out a tranq gun and shoot her before she knows what he's going to do.

Her body looks eerily fragile, small, and he runs a hand through her hair and kisses her forehead before slipping out of the door, pulling it shut behind him. 

* * *

HYDRA use information Clint gives them to blow up a Shield training facility. His back is slapped and his hand is shaken and he is torn between throwing up and hysterical laughter. This was a test of his loyalty, he realizes, remembering sending arrows into SHIELD agents he'd known for years.

That night he fucks Max hard and fast and long, bruises and biting and sweating and anger. It feels a little bit like being reborn and a lot like dying.

* * *

Clint barely pays attention to the passage of time. He's sent on jobs and used for information and some days he hates himself and some days he doesn't.

Sometimes he dreams of Natasha, her hair like lava and it hurts so much he can barely stand it. Sometimes he dreams of Loki and when he awakes he longs for the feelings of safety, freedom and certainty that he felt in the dreams _._  He hates himself for that. He never dreams about Coulson, he thinks that even his subconscious is too pained by the thought that Coulson is in the ground and that Clint helped put him there.

Something big is on the horizon, it's need to know and Clint doesn't but he's getting a lot more work to do. Troops are moved to a facility in the middle of nowhere and he's put in the rafters, overseeing security. It's funny, last time he'd been given that job was almost eighteen months ago and it hadn't ended too well for anyone concerned.

Clint has a birds-eye view when the party is well and truly crashed so he settles back to watch the fire-fight. His eyes pick out a familiar shock of dark hair just as something impacts the body beneath it and the man is thrown backwards and to the floor. Clint is on the ground before he is conscious of moving.

Max is bleeding, a hole where his lung should be and the hideous symmetry isn't lost on Clint. His mind flicking back to the video footage of Coulson bleeding out so long ago, before all this started. He squeezes Max's hand, holding on tight and tries to stop thinking of Coulson as he stutters and gasps and then stops breathing altogether.

There's chaos around him but Clint can only see in slow motion and an explosion behind him flings him forward, his head smashing into the concrete floor. Everything is beginning to get woozy but he's fighting to stay awake as more and more SHIELD agents pour into the facility.

He takes deep breaths and forces himself to look up, when he does his eyes meet Hill's. She has a large gash across her face, a bleeding hand and she's covered in dust but she still has an air of untouchability. Clint aims and shoots and the goon behind her goes down in a slump.

Hill nods at him, crisp and efficient.“Thank you, Agent Barton, it's time to come in.”

When he hears the words he lets the darkness claim him. Time to go home.

* * *

He wakes in SHIELD medical with Coulson standing by his bed. He finds that he's not as surprised as he should be.

“Weren't you dead?”

“I was. It didn't stick.” Coulson replies calmly, eyes flicking over Clint, making his skin itch.

“I'm sorry the mission lasted so long, we had hoped to have you back sooner.”

Clint wants to scratch his own skin off. He wants to leap out of the bed and punch Coulson. He wants to hit him right in his cool, detached face. He doesn't, he knows that it wouldn't really make him feel any better.

“Was it worth it?”

Coulson doesn't hesitate before answering. “Yes.”

“Then that's all that matters.” Clint turns his head away, trying to bite down on his disappointment and anger as he hears the sharp, regular footsteps leave the room.

* * *

The next time he wakes, Natasha is watching him.

“I had no choice.” He tells her before she can say anything. “It made sense.”

“Yes,” she replies. “You were the logical choice. But if you ever do it again I will do things you haven't imagined in your darkest nightmares.”

He nods, and before she turns to leave she squeezes his ankle. It is all he will get, but he's glad of it.

* * *

Coulson visits again before he is cleared to leave. The itchy feeling is back under his skin and he needs to get out of there so he can breathe but Coulson just keeps looking at him and  _talking_ , keeps asking questions and Clint can't bear it.

He assures Clint that their plans worked perfectly; that the information he'd fed to HYDRA had done its job, had looked real without being so; that the training facility and other SHIELD buildings had been empty, evacuated just in time, already-dead bodies left amongst the wreckage.

Clint doesn't know if he believes him. He's never doubted Coulson before but something inside him is retching and scratching desperately at him.

The information he sent back to SHIELD had been worth it, apparently. The operation they'd stopped that day “could have been the end of civilisation as we know it,” but Clint's used to facing the end of the world every other Thursday and the idea falls a little flat.

Coulson pauses before he finally leaves, his head tilted to the side.

“You didn't seem surprised to see me.”

“It makes more sense for you to be alive than dead.” Clint replies but doesn't really know what he means by it.

* * *

After more debriefings and meetings than he's ever had in his life he is given three months mandatory leave. He has to attend fortnightly psych evaluations but apart from that he has a whole lot of empty time on his hands. His house, barely inhabited anyway, is stagnant and dusty. He walks through it in a daze, running his fingers over furniture he barely remembers owning, feeling like he's trespassing in a stranger's home.

Time passes; hours, days, weeks maybe. He goes for runs and lifts weights and has multiple, too-long, too-hot showers every day. He eats when he remembers and sleeps less than that but gradually things start to realign themselves in his mind. He recognises this feeling, he's gone through it before every time his life shifts suddenly, he just has to work through it.

He dreams of flying and it feels like it's all he's ever wanted in his life, to be off the ground.

One night he dreams that he's circling in the air on a cool New Mexico evening when he spots Coulson on the ground with a rifle. He wants to call out to him but before he can Coulson is peppering his wings with holes. As he starts to tumble to the ground Coulson becomes Max, bleeding and gasping and screaming. He wakes on the couch, shaking and angry. When he kicks his coffee table it hits the wall, splintering into fragments. He ignores the broken pieces for a week.

* * *

Stark turns up and Clint doesn't know why. He barely knows the guy. He fought beside him for a while and then ate shawarma, but that was it. He waltzes in like he owns the place and Clint can feel his eyes on the broken table and the dirty crockery but Stark doesn't say anything, just throws himself down on the sofa.

“So, SHIELD are assholes. Well, we knew that of course, after the Coulson débâcle, but really? Taking you straight from that shitstorm and throwing you undercover. That is not sane.”

Clint shrugs, digs through his fridge for a beer then hands it to Stark.

“It's my job. Besides, enemies of SHIELD had seen me with Loki, it was the perfect opportunity to plant someone in one of their operations.”

“I don't deny that, but maybe there are more important things than taking the 'perfect opportunity' and as for telling everybody you'd gone rogue? That you couldn't be trusted? Motherfuckers.”

Clint thinks about explaining. He thinks about telling Stark how it added credibility to the story, in case there was a leak within SHIELD. He doesn't though because he's lost eighteen months of his life and probably caused good people to die and, orders or not, it often feels like even 'the greater good' isn't worth that.

There's silence for a while, it doesn't feel awkward but it's not overly comfortable either.

Stark eyes him sideways “You should come to the tower sometime. The team all live there now and you're more than welcome.”

Clint knows that he won't go. He's fought besides a lot of people, eaten bad Arabic food with a fair number and he doesn't feel the need to be best buddies and play house with  _them_.

He can count the number of sentences he's said to Stark on his hands. The guy has twice thought of him as an enemy, as being on the other side, and yet here he is, reaching out and making some kind of gesture. Clint doesn't really know how to comprehend that. He roots around in his mind for the appropriate behaviour, the appropriate words, but comes up blank, his brain a maze he can't navigate.

“I shot Natasha.” He offers.

“You tranqued her,” Stark corrects, “and now that we all know why you did she'll forgive you.”

“No, you don't understand.” Clint insists, he suddenly wants desperately to articulate what he's feeling. Stark's just the guy who happens to be here to hear it.

“I was sent to kill her once.”

If Stark is confused by the direction the conversation takes he doesn't show it.

“I thought you never missed.”

“I don't. I decided that The Black Widow wasn't going to die that day. Coulson backed me up and SHIELD have never regretted it.” Clint smiles, thinking of the days when it was just the three of them. The Three Musketeers he'd call them and Coulson would roll his eyes and Nat would smirk and the world would seem...right.

“Since then, we look out for each other, we have each others backs. She'll forgive me, but I... I can still see myself shooting her.” He trails off, swallowing hard. He can feel Stark's eyes on him, glad that there's no reply.

Stark doesn't stay much longer, leaving with a handshake, a shoulder pat and a repeat of his request for Clint to come to the tower.

After he leaves, Clint picks up the broken dishes and starts to tidy up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil has only seen Barton twice since he returned to the fold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Theteapartyvip and Adamantsteve for looking this over for me.

Phil has only seen Barton twice since he returned to the fold. Both of those times in medical and Phil could tell that he was antsy and desperate to get away. He feels like he's let him down somehow, feels like he's been letting him down all along.

_He barely allows the door to shut behind him before the words are out of his mouth._

“ _Have we heard anything from him?”_

_Fury nods, “He made a drop last night.”_

_Phil lets out the breath he'd been holding, a wave of relief flooding through him._

“ _Surely by now we have enough intel, sir? Isn’t it about time we recalled him?”_

_Fury runs a hand across his face. “Phil, you know I wouldn't have sent him out there if I didn't think it was absolutely necessary. We’ll have him back as soon as we can but not yet.”_

_Phil bites back all the things he wants to say, he knows he needs to stay professional about this, the last thing anyone needs is for him to lose focus._

“ _Sir, with all due respect, this is bull. After what Barton went through with Loki he should never have been given this assignment. If I'd been conscious...”_

_Fury shakes his head. “You think I like that we had to do this? The whole agency is in goddamn chaos after the Loki incident, we can't let anyone take advantage of that. Having Barton in place to keep us abreast of what HYDRA are upto is a godsend and you know it. I need you to stop thinking like Phil Coulson, Barton's friend and mentor, and start thinking like Agent Coulson of SHIELD, badass motherfucker who stood up against an alien god, OK?”_

* * *

One of the good things about having the clearance that Phil does is that he can watch the videos of Barton's psych evaluations. Of course, just because someone  _can_  do something doesn't mean that they  _should,_  but Phil's not too proud to say that when it comes to Barton he tends to do a lot of things that he probably shouldn't.

“ _Tell me about Max Seacombe.”_

“ _Sagittarius, terrible taste in reading material, good at sucking cock.”_

Phil's hand hovers over the pause button. There's a tightening in his chest that he knows has nothing to do with scepters or chest surgery.

“ _You spent a lot of time with Max whilst you were undercover. How do you feel about his death, given the nature of your relationship?”_

“ _I've fucked a lot of people who have ended up in the ground, he's not even the first one I helped put there.”_

Phil presses stop and rests his head in his hands for a moment, trying to breathe normally.

* * *

He finds Barton on his back porch surrounded by wood.

“Have you found your calling as a carpenter?”

Barton shrugs, squinting at him, “My coffee table was broken.”

Barton doesn't ask what he's doing there. He doesn't say anything as Phil sits, his back against the wall, and watches him measure and saw, watches the muscles in his back and arms shift and sweat slide down the back of his neck. After half an hour he stops and sits next to Phil. He doesn't say anything for a while, just stares straught ahead, before speaking.

“Do you remember Buenos Aires?”

The mission had been early on in their working relationship and, although a bit of a bust, not a failure. Shortly after they arrived their target had dropped dead of a god damned heart attack and they had been left with three days in which to do nothing but sit in the safe house and wait for the scheduled evac. Phil had worked on reports and analysis and Barton had whittled. Honest-to-god whittled. Phil isn't sure where the wood had come from but he remembers watching those long, confident fingers moving deftly and purposefully. It had been almost hypnotic.

They hadn't talked that much; long, surprisingly comfortable silences broken by short conversations, but one morning Phil had woken up to Barton cooking scrambled eggs and Phil had somehow ended up talking about his childhood over breakfast. Barton had listened and smiled and asked questions and Phil had started to feel a vague sense of guilt when comparing his early life to that of Barton's. Barton hadn't seemed to even think about the disparities between them, simply laughed at Phil's stories, his smile free and happy.

“I do,” he nodded and waits for Barton to elaborate but he doesn't, just stands and starts planing down the wood, his hands moving in long, sure strokes.

* * *

Phil corners Natasha in the SHIELD cafeteria.

“Have you gone to see him?” he asks, dropping onto the bench opposite her.

She shakes her head. “He'll come to me, when he's ready.”

“Natasha...”

“He shot me.”.

“He had to do that, you know that, he had to convince you to leave him alone, that he didn't want your help.”

Natasha shakes her head, she laughs but it's not a pleasant sound.

“You really don't get it, do you? One minute he's under Loki's control, the next he's fighting against him. Then before he can take a breath SHIELD send him off to work for HYDRA. For the next eighteen months he has to follow two contradicting sets of orders, and give away information that no doubt got people killed. During that time he has to pull a gun on the only person who's ever truly had his back. You think that right now he can tell the difference between SHIELD and Loki and HYDRA? You think he knows who he's meant to be working for? Loyal to? Who are the 'good guys'?”

Phil feels himself sag, the weight of her words washing over him. “I didn't send him out there.”

“No, you didn't,” Natasha replies, standing up, “but you didn't bring him back either.”

Phil thinks about Barton smiling around a mouthful of eggs in Buenos Aires, teasing Phil for naming his goldfish 'Cap.' He thinks of Barton, a plane in his hand, body sprinkled with sawdust, his eyes tired, older.

* * *

“ _How do you think your time with Loki affected your actions whilst undercover?”_

“ _How do you think these sessions make a goddamn difference?”_

“ _Agent Barton, we need-”_

“ _How about I tell you what_  I  _need? That ok?_  I  _need to get on with things. You have fuck all idea what I've been through or what I will go through next time SHIELD decide there's a mission only I can do, so don't tell me what_  you  _need.”_

* * *

When he returns the next evening, Barton is crouched down, screwdriver in hand, his tongue poking out. The table is actually looking pretty good.

Phil doesn't bother with hello.

“I've been watching your psych appointments.”

Barton licks his lips as he looks up at Phil.

“For work purposes or is your usual porn not hitting the spot?” Phil doesn't flinch, doesn't allow the words to affect him. Barton's never tried to hurt him before and he's not going to allow him to start now.

“They're trying to help you.”

“You really think they're actually trained to do that? Trained to understand the jobs we do? That they're not just voyeurs getting off on other people's danger?”

Phil shakes his head, watching as Barton returns to his work. watching the twists and turns of the screwdriver in those capable hands. The truth is that he hates psych appointments himself, for much the same reasons.

“I can take care of them, have you signed off.”

Barton narrows his eyes, “You can do that?”

“It's one of the perks of being me.”

“And why would you do that? If you think they're 'trying to help'?”

“Because they're not helping you. I wish they were, but they're not.” Barton turns to look at him, his eyes intense, and Phil wants to reach out, to lay a hand on his arm. He knows how it would feel beneath his hand, the heat of the skin and the firmness of the muscle. He has a fleeting, inappropriate flash of gripping onto solid, sweat-damp biceps while hot breath dances upon his neck.

The air is thick with tension; it's buzzing around them and Phil desperately wants to break it but he doesn't know how, so moves to leave instead, trying to escape the awkwardness. Before he gets far he stops and turns, the words that he suddenly, desperately needs to say are dry on his tongue.

“You asked if it was worth it, what you had to do.”

Barton doesn't reply, doesn't even look at Phil.

“Agent Coulson of SHIELD said yes, but Phil Coulson would always say no,  _I_  would always say no.”

Barton doesn't look up but he nods and Phil can see his throat working to swallow.

* * *

The strange energy fluctuations they've been monitoring in Brooklyn have been getting more frequent. Phil supposes that he shouldn't be surprised when suddenly there are portals and hideous monsters and Steve Rogers taking it entirely too personally.

They manage to kill a hell of a lot of the... things, but the portals are still winking open and closed and it's clear the battle is far from over when they gather to regroup. Phil is opening his mouth to make a suggestion when Rogers does it for him.

“I want Hawkeye.”

Fury shakes his head, “He's on leave. I can find you a sniper if that's what you want.”

Rogers crosses his arm and lifts his chin in a move that Phil has become ridiculously familiar with, insubordination at its best,  _from_  the best.

“I  _want_  Hawkeye. I want his eyes, his aim, his tactical knowledge.”

Phil doesn't think he's ever felt more affection for the man and judging by Natasha's face, neither has she.

Eventually Fury nods and turns to Phil. “You better go get your boy.”

* * *

Barton opens the door after three knocks.

“If you're here for another dose of  _Woodworking with Hawkeye_  you're not in luck. The varnish is drying as we speak.”

Phil wonders if Barton doesn't watch the news. How can he not know what is going on?

“We have portals spewing out unidentified beasts in Brooklyn.”

“And?” There's a stubborn twist to Barton's mouth that Phil knows all too well.

“Captain Rogers requested you personally.”

One of Barton's eyebrows raises minutely.

“And what about you, sir? Do  _you_  think I'm ready to be back in the field?”

“Rogers beat me to it, I was about to request you myself.”

Barton cocks his head to the side and grins, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Well then, sir, what are we waiting for?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A year ago I intended to have the final chapters posted within a week. That... didn't happen but this fic and its WIP status has been playing on my mind so I've finally written the rest of it (thanks to a heavy dose of essay related procrastination.)
> 
> There is a short dream sequence contained within this chapter which involves biting and blood. It's not particularly graphic but I figure forwarning is best.

 

 

Natasha's thigh is three inches from Clint's on the bench, her hands crossed in her lap. He can feel her gaze but doesn't meet it,  _can't_  meet it.

"Were you mad?" he asks, staring at his fingers.

 "I was... concerned. At first. But I suppose that yes, I was angry for a time. After I returned and spoke to Fury, I got the impression that he knew more than he let on. Coulson too. I decided to let it be, for a while at least. Now I am mostly angry with them for sending you out there, for keeping you out there."

 "And me? Are you angry with me?"

 She takes a deep breath.

 "You could have told me. You  _should_  have told me."

 Clint finally meets her eyes. He nods.

 "I know."

 "Well then," she replies, "that's that."

 Later she slips her arm through his as they walk down the street and the tightness in his throat gradually dissipates.

* * *

 SHIELD is different. Everything on a bigger scale than it was. Rumors and whispers follow Clint in the corridors but he finds that he doesn't care as much as he might once have. Most of them are more awestruck than angry or fearful and he doesn't quite know how to deal with that so ignores it as best he can.

The Avengers have been welcoming. More welcoming than he could have hoped really, Natasha's trust in him smoothing over any bumps in adjustment. He finds that he slots into place like he's always been fighting alongside them, like they saved a space just for him. 

 

 

He also finds welcome in other, less expected places too.

  _Dr Richmond sweeps open the curtain to his cubicle, her ponytail swinging and a smile on her face._

_“Agent Barton! Aren't you just a sight for sore eyes?”_

_“I am?”_

_“Hush now, you know you're my favorite."_

_The breath catches in Clint's throat and he works hard to stare at the syringe she is assembling, the way her fingers work on the tourniquet around his arm._

_“The nurses have definitely missed these nice prominent veins of yours, nobody else is as easy to stick full of needles.”_

_“Sadist.” Clint replies and Richmond laughs, withdrawing the needle and pressing a cotton ball to the mark._

* * *

He still dreams and still wakes in a cold sweat with his heart thudding a bassline of fear but it is less frequent. One night after taking down a target he'd been watching for weeks he dreams that Coulson is on top of him on one of the conference tables, fucking him so hard his teeth rattle. His eyes are boring into Clint's like lasers before he leans down and bites his neck until the skin breaks, until blood is pouring from the wound. It fills the room but still Coulson hammers away at him, paying the rising tide of red no mind. When he finally jolts awake he runs for hours, until the sun rises and the world awakes and then he carries on, letting his feet pound his frustrations out on the streets.

* * *

 

Clint likes Rogers. Honestly. He likes all of them really, assholes though they may be. Even so, he doesn't see why they all feel the need to try and have heart to hearts with him.

 "It can be hard, when your whole life changes very quickly but there are people here for you to talk to."

 Clint manages not to roll his eyes at the guy but it's a closely fought battle.

 "I'm fine, Cap. A job is a job and the HYDRA job is over so..." He shrugs.

 "You should come to the tower. Tony has set you up some quarters."

 It's the third time he's had this conversation in the last week and honestly, it's starting to grate on him.

 "I like my house. It's ramshackle and a mess but it's mine. I bought it all on my own and it's mine. I don't need charity, I can manage fine on my own."

 Maybe his voice is a little louder than it should be as Roger's eyes have widened and he's taken a step back. He nods though, like he understands.

 "Well, you should still come by to visit. Bruce really knows how to cook and Tony is teaching me about pop culture." The last is said with a fond, albeit long suffering, smile and somehow Clint finds himself agreeing to come around for dinner and a movie sometime.

* * *

“Barton, if you could come to my office after the briefing, I've got something I need to discuss with you.”

 Coulson's hand is warm on his shoulder, heat seeping through his shirt, and Clint wants to push up towards it. Chase the warmth and strength. He fights the urge and slouches down further in his seat.

 

“Sure thing, bossman.”

He feels the nod from behind him and does his best to ignore the urge to fidget and the swell of panic in his chest.

He follows Coulson to his office and has barely sat down before Coulson starts talking.

“Director Fury has been considering your place within the agency.”

“Sir.” He says, non-committally, gut clenching at the words, body tensed for the worst.

 Coulson sits back in his chair, hands folded on the table in front of him.

 “You are, of course, first and foremost a SHIELD agent. However, working as closely with the Avengers as you do, it seems unfair to also send you on numerous other missions." He glances down at his desk before meeting Clint's eyes. "After some discussion, we would like you to act as the official SHIELD liaison to the Avengers Initiative.”

 “You what?” Clint sputters, stunned.

 “It would involve analysing incoming threats to see if they require the attention of the Initiative, investigating and information gathering and working with the Avengers to secure threats. You will handle certain areas where Shield and the Avengers overlap.”

 Clint can feel his eyebrows climbing his forehead. 

 “But... aren't you the liaison?”

 “Do you really think that I didn't have enough to do before a bunch of superheroes showed up on my doorstep? I will, of course, be working with you on an organisational basis and may come in to the field with you if it is required but believe me you are not putting me out of a job here.”

 Clint stares at the patch of wall that bears a dent roughly the size of Coulson's fist. It had appeared three years ago while Clint was on a mission in Shanghai. He'd been held captive for nine days. When he returned he'd seen the hole. He'd never asked and Coulson had never mentioned it. It hadn't ever been fixed, a strange juxtaposition in the otherwise pristine office.

 Words bubble in Clint's throat, words that wind their way around his tongue and choke the air out of him. He finds that all that escapes his mouth is an almost hysterical giggle.

 Coulson raises an eyebrow and smiles gently.

 "I think you would be very good in the role. Have a think about it and let me know what you decide."

 Clint shakes his head.

 "No, I mean yes, I want it. I'll do it."

 Coulson's smile widens.

 "Good, I'll inform the Director and I'm sure he'll set up a meeting with you to discuss how this is going to work."

* * *

Clint sits in front of Dr Knowles and doesn't meet his eyes. He expects him to try and carry on where they left off or be all passive aggressive about him getting Coulson to cancel their sessions only for him to come crawling back but he does nothing of the sort, just gives him a soft smile and asks what's on his mind.

He takes a deep breath and starts to talk.

It isn't easy of course, he doesn't make every session and the ones he does come to don't always go well but he made the choice to be here and he figures that's got to be a step in the right direction.

* * *

He spends some time at the tower; not a lot, being around a whole bunch of people in a none-work situation makes him antsy, but some. They're good people and, for reasons he can't quite fathom, they really seem to want him there. When hanging around in a group gets too much for him, Natasha shows him her quarters, making him tea and letting him poke at her knickknacks. When Bruce joins them to chat for a while, Clint finds himself laughing, as though for a moment he's as light as the air.

* * *

"There was a guy. When I was undercover."

 Coulson nods.

 "I know."

 "Right, of course you do." Clint picks at the label of his beer and pulls his legs from where they're resting on his new table. He leans forward a bit, hunches over them.

 "He got shot. During the raid. Died in front of me." He's not sure why he's telling Coulson this, he's not sure why he invited him around for a drink at all but he's not examining the desire too closely. Maybe the shrink appointments have made him chatty.

 "Did you love him?"

 The question almost makes him drop the bottle. Coulson's looking at him with this kind fucking expression on his face and something lurking in his eyes and Clint can't answer quick enough.

 "What? Christ no. I didn't even like him much." He shrugs. "But he existed you know."

 Coulson looks away, eyes on the silent TV.

 "Yes, I know."

 


	4. Chapter 4

Phil has never pretended to be a good person. When Barton starts meeting with the psych department again, he continues to watch.

_"I have these dreams. Nightmares."_

_"What about?"_

_"Loki, HYDRA, Coulson."_

_Why do you think you dream about Agent Coulson?"_

_"I dunno. I think they're the worst ones. Sometimes he kills me, sometimes he fucks me, once we ate ice cream."_

Phil presses stop and sits unmoving for a long time.

* * *

“All I'm saying is you've been all over the place doing crazy shit, what's the most memorable mission you've been on?”

“Stark, you know that's classified, I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to.” Barton replies, tossing a pen in the air and catching it, his head tipped back and his eyes closed.

“Ok, ok, how about... Favorite place you've been?”

“Cleveland.”

The breath is knocked from Phil's body.  _Cleveland_. Cleveland was babysitting scientists and a shoddy twin room. Cleveland was a broken air conditioner and energy signals. Cleveland was Clint writhing and sweating underneath him,  _around_  him, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Cleveland was Clint moaning “please, please, please,” over and over again like Phil was all he wanted in the world. Cleveland was the only time Phil let himself give in and admit his desires, the only time he'd let himself have the thing he'd wanted more than anything.

“Yeah right, Hawk-face.”

Barton shrugs, opening his eyes and stretching.

"You asked."

"You're telling me that you've been all over the world to places even _I've_ never heard of and you choose Cleveland as your absolute favorite? I mean, nothing against Ohio but that's just weird, right? Back me up here, Coulson."

"Oh, I don't know, Mr Stark, maybe the Buckeye State holds some delights you remain unaware of."

Stark narrows his eyes, looking from Phil to Barton and back again but all Phil can focus on is the way Barton's eyes meet his with a secretive smile before springing away. It's so much like how it used to between them that he has to swallow and cough to hide the emotion that's threatening to overwhelm him.

"Alright then, Agent Barton, are you ready to start?" 

* * *

Barton is improving. Phil can see it in each briefing he runs in his new position, explaining mission parameters and theories like he's been doing it forever. He can see it in the way his eyes meet other people's more, lingering instead of darting away to stare at fixed points. He can see it in the way he allows the team closer to him, in the laughter and jokes and the occasional touch. 

As for himself, he is unsure if Barton's increasing presence in his life is causing just as many wounds as it is soothing.

* * *

Phil doesn't know why he gets an invite to the team dinner but Pepper is there as well so maybe it was her idea. They seem to be gradually forgiving him for keeping Barton's mission a secret from them and his thankfulness almost chokes him. Halfway through the meal Barton slips away and he follows him to the roof.

"You still watching my psych appointments?"

"Yes."

Barton swings his legs, kicking the building with his heels.

"Are you enjoying them?"

Phil can see the tension in Barton's jaw when he sits down beside him.

"Mostly I'm wondering why eating ice cream with me classes as a nightmare."

Barton seems surprised by his own bitter laugh when it escapes him.

"That's the thing, sir... even the normal things or the good things... in the dreams they seem twisted, wrong."

Phil nods. He's had more than his fair share of messed up dreams in his time. He waits for a while, seeing if Barton will say anything else.

"You've been doing well, as the liaison." He pauses for a moment, unsure if what he wants to say next will be well received. "I'm proud of you."

Barton turns to look at him and in that moment his face is so open and vulnerable that Phil yearns for him.

"Yeah?" He whispers.

"Yeah."

* * *

"Sir?" 

"Yes, Barton?"

"Hold on tight."

The jet accelerates quickly, Barton swooping and diving through puffy clouds and laughing to himself as Phil's files tumble from his knees.

Phil is transfixed by the noise, so familiar but so strange, unheard for too long. They continue for a few moments, freedom in wings and air and flight. When Barton rights them again, coming back to a more sedate speed, he glances over at Phil and his grin steals the air from the cabin.

"Next time, a little more warning would not go amiss," Phil forces himself to say over the thumping of his heart, bending to retrieve the nearest files. The answering chuckle is ambrosia to his ears. 

* * *

"You ever think about it?"

It's a lazy Sunday. The end of a slow week and Phil is sitting on Barton's porch reading a paper while Barton works on another table. He's not said what or who it's for but he knew Natasha had been eyeballing the original when the three of them had lunch last week so he has a pretty good idea.

"Think about what?"

Barton puts down his saw and stares off into the distance.

"The Buckeye State."

Phil swallows.

"You ever think about that night? Goddamn shitty room with those orange comforters?"

"Yeah," Phil doesn't know why his voice is so hoarse or why he's struggling to breathe, "yeah, I do."

Barton turns and looks at him. His eyes roaming over Phil's body. He nods and moves towards the house.

"You should come inside with me."

"Are you sure?"

Barton reaches out with his hand to haul Phil off the ground. He doesn't let go until they reach the bedroom and even then it's not for long.

It's not like last time; it's gentler, slower, time oozing like molasses as Clint braces himself and moves on top of Phil, rising and falling, his eyes never leaving Phil's face. Later, when Phil has flipped them and is gasping into Clint's shoulder, clutching at him with shaking hands, he realizes that this time he's the one saying please over and over again, he's the one begging.

He stays, afterwards. He'd had to stay last time, one crappy hotel room between them. Now, lying in the patch of sunlight that falls on Barton's bed, chest rising and falling and their legs entangled, he makes the decision to stay. At least until Clint tells him to leave. He doesn't.

* * *

_"How are you sleeping?"_

_"It varies. Some nights I can't breathe. I have to get out of the house, I feel like I'm suffocating."_

_"And other nights?"_

_"Other nights I don't."_

* * *

The first time that Phil witnesses one of Clint's nightmares he is terrified. He thinks it would be ok if Clint was thrashing in his sleep, if he was yelling, but he isn't. He is almost deathly still, face twisted into a grimace, nearly silent whimpers escaping his mouth. He shakes him awake and is rewarded with an arm against his throat, and weight upon his chest, Clint's empty eyes staring down at him from above.

"Jesus fuck, Phil." Clint whispers after endless seconds, shaking as he moves to climb off. Phil can't help but grab him, hauling him down so they are chest to chest, forcing the air from his damaged lungs. The kiss is fierce and rough and Phil wants -  _needs_  - it to continue until neither of them can breathe, until they exist in a vacuum, empty of emotions and fear and memories.

* * *

"He's doing better you know."

"Hmm?" Phil eyes Natasha from behind his screen.

"Barton. Since you two started to... work things out. He's doing better."

Phil doesn't have a response, he drops his eyes to the schematics on his monitor.

"Yesterday he laughed at Stark's dirty joke about Madame HYDRA."

For a twisted moment Phil's brain short circuits on that idea, then he nods.

"There's still a way to go," he says finally.

"Yes, but I think we're going to get there."

He runs his tongue over his lips, remembering Clint singing in the shower that morning, his smile over breakfast.

"I think so too."


	5. Chapter 5

It's remarkably easy to get used to sleeping with Phil. Not to mention how easy it is to get used to Phil just being there. It should be weird to have someone in his space all the time, a warm body under the covers instead of the lonely dark. It's not though. It's comfortable. Calming.

Clint tries not to count the number of times he wakes up in the night and just stares at Phil lying asleep, one arm under his pillow and his mouth pouting slightly with each exhalation. He tells himself that he's not being a sap, it's just that he never thought they'd reach this place. He didn't believe it could work after one night in a shitty hotel in Ohio and he certainly didn't think it could work after eighteen months spent living a lie, but here they are, together. It's kind of hard to comprehend sometimes as he studies the line of Phil's shoulders in the early morning light.

Sometimes dreams become nightmares and nightmares become dreams, a mish-mash of emotions and thoughts and memories. Sometimes he jolts awake in fear, his heart banging and the walls closing in on him but sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he wakes up with Phil's hand resting on his waist and warm breath on the back of his neck. Those times are the best times.

* * *

He freaks out while bagging his stuff at the grocery store when he realizes that he's bought Phil's favorite cereal as well as his own. Three flashbacks and ninety miles later he calms the fuck down, stops shaking, turns the car around and heads home. He stares at the box for a long time that night, ignoring the ringing of his phone.

When he tells Dr Knowles about it he is half expecting a reprimand. He gets a shrug and an 'it happens.'

"At least Captain America didn't have to come and retrieve you from a scandalous motel in Mexico City."

When Clint tells him that he thinks Rogers might really appreciate Mexico City he laughs and Clint feels like he passed some sort of test.

* * *

"It wasn't all bad, you know."

Phil looks up from his paper, his hair morning-mussed and his glasses ever so slightly wonky.

"What wasn't?"

"Working for HYDRA." Clint looks down at his empty plate, "It felt... I felt... free... sometimes."

When Clint looks up again Phil is nodding, his face open as he smiles softly.

"I know."

"You do?"

"I've been long-term undercover myself, in some pretty shady organizations."

Clint almost asks if Phil ever had any doubts about returning to SHIELD but he doesn't, just nods and takes the dishes to the sink.

Phil's hand on his back is tentative, reticent in a way his touches haven't been recently and it makes Clint uncomfortable, unsure of himself.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Clint opens his mouth but when he turns to look at Phil and sees that familiar face creased with concern, all that comes out is, "actually, I'd rather you suck my dick."

And the kicker of it? Phil does. Right there in the kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of a weirdly domestic breakfast. He gets on his knees in his reading glasses and pajamas, pulling down Clint's boxers like there's nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing. 

* * *

"And that is how you do that!"

Steve Rogers is a hustler, a god-damn Mario Kart hustler. Which is something that Clint never expected to learn on a quiet Tuesday evening while crowded around one of Stark's ridiculous big-screens. It's loud, and competitive and a little claustrophobic but it's also... nice. He's getting used to them, to their quirks and personalities. He's getting used to the idea of a  _team_.

"Barton, you're up."

Stark tosses him the handset and Clint makes a show of cracking his knuckles to make the others laugh. He looks up to find Natasha watching him, a gentle smile dancing on her lips.

* * *

"Fuck fuck fuck..."

"Your... eloquence is... appreciated, Agent Barton." Phil gasps as he holds onto Clint's arms, strong body pushing Clint into the mattress.

"You love my eloquence."

"I love  _you_ ," Phil grunts out and Clint comes all over the sheets.

* * *

He still dreams of flying, of soaring high above the city on gentle wings. Sometimes he realizes he misses the ground, the firm stability beneath his feet. The night he dreams that Natasha and Phil are flying too, their wingtips brushing his own, he wakes himself up laughing, tears on his cheeks.

* * *

Clint has spent more time in his house since coming back than he ever did before. He really only bought it to prove that he could, to have a place that was completely  _his._ It had never felt like a home, it had been an escape he'd never used, instead spending most of his time in his quarters at SHIELD. Now, it's somewhere he enjoys being, somewhere he enjoys relaxing, somewhere he enjoys _sharing_.

He sneaks a copy of his house key onto Phil's keyring on a rainy Friday morning. His palms are sweaty and it's a bit tricky to do, his fingers feeling twice their normal size. When it's done he slips them back into the desk drawer before heading back to his own office at an almost-run, his stomach churning.

That evening he comes home to a smell of garlic and spices and noise floating towards the front door from the kitchen. A smile lights up Phil's face when he looks up from the stove, widening as Clint leans close to press their mouths together, a feeling of peace and happiness floating through him.

"Welcome home," Phil whispers, his lips brushing Clint's neck as Clint clings to him, his heart thudding in anxious joy.  _Home. He's home._

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Miles Davis and the Cool by The Gaslight Anthem because I am terrible at titles.


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